We are full-on, insane, frenzied lips-crashing-against-one-another making out. My hands don’t quite know what to do; his are the same, and it’s like we’re grappling with one another with energy that comes from nowhere, trying to memorize each other’s bodies with the skin on our fingertips. He pushes me down against the blanket, and my senses flood in pleasure. He is above me, over me, and his lips are against mine and it’s so heady, so deliriously overwhelming that I can, for the first time in days, block out the screaming surrounding us.
I moan against his mouth, and he groans against mine, and our tongues go to war against one another. But then Caleb goes and says something I can’t ignore. He’ll know, he shouts, an elephant’s weight of force behind his words. You think Jonah isn’t keeping close tabs on his brother right now?
It’s enough for me to jerk away. And for Kellan to leap away from me, like he can feel the fire under my skin, putting twice the distance between us than usual. There’s a wild look in his eyes, desire mixed with agony, and then dipped in heartbreak.
What have we done?
We do not discuss what happened. Hours go by, sleep goes by, and I think about it, obsess over it, and yet . . . I can’t say anything. Because, what would I say? What would even be good enough?
I watch Kellan squat in front of one of the small tubes leading out of the end of the tunnel he’d found on day one. There are three in total, but they’re all so small it’s impossible for either of us to fit through. Even still, he has the lantern at the entrance and is peering within, constantly trying to figure out how to make the impossible work.
I’m sitting to the side of the tube, observing thoughts flicker across his face. When he’s tired like he is now, he isn’t able to easily control his feelings. He’s anxious. Stressed and tired and frustrated and feeling more than a little helpless, which drives up my guilt, since I unfairly accused him of doing nothing during that awful fight. But he still studies the opening, tries to see into the tube to calculate what things would be like if one of us could get through, where it leads to, and what obstacles might lay ahead. If the risk is worth it.
When he rubs tiredly at his eyes, a small white head peeks out of the tube. Pink eyes and whiskers stare back at me. My first thought: I’m Alice, and this is the rabbit hole. My second: rabbits can be eaten.
“Kellan!” I whisper, not moving. “Grab the rabbit! I’ll make a fire.”
His eyes blink open, his head swivels around, searching. “Rabbit?”
The pink orbs stare balefully at me. Eat me? it seems to accuse. You want to eat me?
I try not to even move my lips as I hiss, “In. The. Tube.” I mean, honestly. He’s about a foot and a half away from the little bugger.
Kellan looks down at the rabbit; the rabbit looks up at him. There is a small standoff that elicits a fairly good-sized gurgle from my stomach. “Get it before it hops away!”
But Kellan does nothing except turn back toward me and frown.
The rabbit smiles—smiles!—at me. Your loss, it seems to say before disappearing into the black.
“Why didn’t you catch it?” Another rumble, one that would normally cause extreme embarrassment, rips through my stomach.
“I didn’t see a rabbit, C.”
He’s more tired than I realized. I say gently, “It was right there.”
He slowly shakes his head. An uncomfortable lack of words opens up between us. Finally, when I can’t take it, I say, “I think it’s time to admit that these tubes aren’t viable options.”
We’ve both tried getting into them; I have my doubts that even a four-year-old could slip through. A rabbit, yes—but not a kid.
He fingers the edges. “Maybe we can—”
“No. We can’t, and you know it. Unless you let me blast it.”
“No.” He sits down next to me, shoulders sagging in defeat. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.” And I know he means business, because he used my full name.
I wish I could hold his hands right now. “Two apologies in as many days,” I tease, because it’s better than crying. “What are you sorry for now?”
“I can’t get you out of here.”
“No one could get us out of here.” I ache to kiss the knuckles on his right hand. They’re rough; a few have scabbed over from his efforts with the tubes. “So you have no reason to be sorry.”
His head slants back against the wall. I shove our shared cup toward him, insisting he drink the bit we’ve collected over the last few hours, but he’s so stubborn. He only takes a small sip before handing it back. Arguing does no good, so instead, I ask him if he’s heard anything from Jonah, even though I know he hasn’t. He confirms this but adds, “He’ll find you, C. I know there’s nothing in all the worlds that could stop him from coming for you once he’s capable.”
“Us,” I stress. “He’ll come for us both.”
When nighttime hits, Caleb announces it mournfully.